Letters to a Young Poetess
by Kaelanti
Summary: Helga's always been better at communicating her thoughts in writing. When that becomes the only feasible way to talk to her friends, what changes may happen?
1. Dedication, Credits, and Notes

**Letters to a Young Poetess**

**by Kaelanti**

**Foreword**

**"Dedication, Credits, and Notes"**

I'd like to dedicate this story to my daughter, whose good cheer and positive attitude always bring a smile to my face. She's a little like having an Arnold of my own around the house, albeit a female one... without a football-shaped head.

Credits for this story go to the following people:

**Craig Bartlett and Nickelodeon** - for creating the Hey Arnold! Series.

**My daughter and husband** - for being supportive about seeing me return to fanfiction.

**Ben Barnett** - for being a beta-reader to me, and guiding me toward making this story better.

**Facsimilii** – for doing an initial edit of the prologue and chapter 1.

Finally, I'd like to say a special thank you to my friends who bore with me as I wrote a story that was not from any fandom they shared with me, and yet still were encouraging and helpful as I did it. As always, my true strength is in my family and friends.

My Readers,

I'm returning to fanfiction after a years-long dry spell in which I felt like I couldn't write. I had no real muse, and though the desire to write cropped up from time to time, all that came out of me were drabbles and ficbits, not particularly conducive to solid storytelling. This is the first solid attempt I've made toward writing a long-lasting story in years, and I'm honestly feeling quite good about it. I have ideas, I have energy, and I have enthusiasm, all of which I'd been lacking until now.

In an effort to improve the quality of my story, and hopefully make it more fun for everyone to read, I have contacted a couple of people about being potential beta-readers, but I am always open to properly constructive criticism. If you have some notes you'd like to share about my writing, please feel free to contact me and share them.

Thank you for looking at this story. I hope you find it enjoyable, and I look forward to seeing what you might say about it.

Yours,

Kaelanti


	2. The Letter that Started It All

**Letters to a Young Poetess**

**by Kaelanti**

**Prologue**

**"The Letter That Started It All"**

The day began as every other day did for Helga. She woke before Miriam remembered to call upstairs and dove into her closet for a brief glimpse of her shrine and a few penned words before school. School itself drug on in one of those happy mixes of boredom and pleasure that it always was, but eventually, it also ended. On the bus ride, where she and Phoebe were situated just a seat ahead of Arnold, but on the other side, so that when she turned to talk to Phoebe, she could easily also watch Arnold out of the corner of her eye, there were no portentous signs or special hints of what awaited her later that night.

She arrived home with no fanfare, dropping her knapsack beside the stairs and rooting through the kitchen for a snack before heading upstairs. Food was placed on her desk beside the computer, and she dove into her English assignment first. As long as she was able to answer 'yes' whenever Big Bob or Miriam asked if she'd done her homework, they didn't really care if she spent the rest of the evening outside with the neighborhood kids. And though she wasn't averse to lying to them, somehow, that particular lie always came back to bite her in the end. So she'd developed the simple habit of rushing through her homework so that she could go play.

But today, for some reason, homework was taking longer than usual. Her pen lingered over her notebook at the latest creative writing assignment Mr. Simmons had given them, and though she wrote slowly, she was only halfway done when she heard the front door open, and Big Bob call out. "Hey Miriam! I'm home, and we've got a letter from Olga!" The words carried clearly up to Helga in her room, and she let out a frustrated groan as she looked over at the door.

Olga, her beloved elder sister, who'd finally finished teaching those fools up in Alaska only to secure another assistant teacher's position at a special boarding school across the country. Olga, whose attempts to bond with Helga were always woefully inadequate and pathetic, and whose shining star example had ensured that Big Bob and Miriam just couldn't look at her – at Helga – with any sort of pride in their eyes. Olga was definitely the bane of Helga's young life, and hearing that there was a letter waiting for them, which would no doubt be read over dinner, was just... sickening.

Still, Helga sighed and closed her notebook, placing the pen atop it before heading for the stairs. Best to get it over with, and then maybe she could lie to her parents and go have some fun with the guys before it was time for bed. She could always work on the writing assignment later that night, or tomorrow morning, after all.

***

"She says the boarding school's a wonderful place," Bob was saying, looking at the letter in one hand as the other loaded his plate down with a mound of mashed potatoes. The food was unerringly on target, but Helga just rolled her eyes and started loading up her own plate. Round steak, potatoes, green beans with bits of bacon, and a large glass of milk were what awaited her, and the only real focus for her attention other than the letter that Bob was reading even now. She'd intended to eat her dinner and slink away before she could hear what her oh-so-beloved older sister had to say, but Bob had foregone Wheel for it. She was stuck.

Bob continued to comment on bits randomly, and Helga continued to do her best to tune him out. It wasn't a perfect attempt, but it was the best she could manage... right up until she froze, her eyes shooting up to stare at him in shock. "Say that again?" she demanded, the words sharp on her tongue, and cracking just a little. "What was that?" Narrowed eyes stared at him as Bob looked down at his youngest daughter in consideration.

"She said that she thought it was the perfect environment for you. Teach you some grace and charm and get a chance to spend some time together," he said thoughtfully, jaw jutting forward just a touch as his head slowly began to nod to the idea. "She's staff; we'd get a discount," he added, nodding a little more.

Helga swallowed, willing the words to be taken back. _Big Bob hates spending money_, she thought wildly. _He'd never be willing to pick up the check for something like this... _Unconsciously, her hands began to twist the napkin in her lap into something that half resembled a croissant. Her body felt frozen, back stiffly upright and muscles tensed to flee the table. But she held still, torn between running from the insanity of it and staying to hear, so that her imagination didn't go wild. It was like a train wreck, something so horrific you couldn't walk away from it.

"I think my girl's got an idea there," Big Bob said after a moment, nodding as pride leaked into his voice. Pride for Olga and her ideas, but no pride for Helga, who simply sat dumbfounded while he continued. "Yeah, sounds like just the place you need. And she says she can get you in next week so we don't have to wait a whole year for it. That settles it. I'll go call her after dinner and make arrangements for your uniform and stuff."

_Move!_ she willed her legs, and after several long seconds, they finally did. She jerked up from the table, her rise knocking down the chair she'd been sitting on. And then she turned and ran for the front door. As she fumbled with the knob, she could hear Big Bob's voice one final time as he spoke to Miriam. "Do the girl some good... give her some structure." And then the door was slamming behind her and Helga was out in the fresh air. She tore down the street, paying no real attention to where she was going. And when she finally came to a stop, she found herself in the alley below Arnold's window, staring up at the darkened glass, shaken.

_Oh Arnold, my love_, she thought to herself, as one hand reached up to grab the lowest rung of the fire escape. She scrambled up nimbly, feeling metal roughened with age beneath her palms. _Beauteous prince, it cannot be so. Can Big Bob really tear me from your side so easily? What will this mean for us, who are separated so cruelly by fate? _

As she set foot on the landing just outside his room, she paused for a long minute. He would notice her out there, would question why she was sitting down on the unforgiving grating that formed its base. He would send her home, but right at that moment, she wanted nothing of the kind. And so she scrambled higher, slipping in through the skylight above his bed and looking around the room. There was a moment of long panic as she considered her options, and then she was reaching for his phone. She dialed Phoebe's number, waiting for the girl to answer. There were questions in that soft, high-pitched voice, but Helga didn't answer a one. "Hey Pheebs. Just... call my parents and tell them I'm staying over at your place tonight, and I'm not coming home." She'd barely heard the girl's acceptance of the task before Helga was hanging up and looking around the room once more before making her way to his closet. She grabbed the spare pillow tossed near there and the blanket from the couch, and ducked inside, making herself comfortable while Arnold was still out.

It wasn't until Arnold returned, collapsing tiredly in bed with a grin on his face, that the tears finally began. _Silent tears for my silent love_, Helga whispered to herself, and cried herself to sleep.


	3. The News Goes Public

**Letters to a Young Poetess**

**by Kaelanti**

**Chapter One**

**"The News Goes Public"**

Tuesday found Helga out of sorts and snappish. Once Arnold had left his room to go down to breakfast that morning, she'd slipped out of his room the same way she'd arrived, shimmying down the fire escape and bolting to Phoebe's house crazily. Her best friend had let her in without a word, and Helga had ducked into the bathroom there to make herself presentable. She couldn't do anything about her clothes, but at least her ribbon was straight and her hair was brushed and put up again. And from there, she'd simply gotten on the bus with Phoebe and gone to school.

School had passed in a blur, a fact which frustrated the nine-year-old girl who'd kept hoping it would slow to a crawl. After school was over, after all, she had to go face her parents, and she absolutely wanted none of that. So she'd stared at the clock, willing each second to take a minute, and each minute an hour. It hadn't listened, and by the end of the day, even Mr. Simmons had given up on trying to make her listen to him. Evidently, he'd realized that commanding Helga's attention that day was one battle he just wouldn't win. He frowned when she didn't turn in any homework, but she brushed it off with a blasé shrug. And when the school bell sounded, a ring that came far too early for her liking, she squared her shoulders and stalked out of the classroom toward the buses. She should have realized that her luck couldn't hold out.

"Hey, Olga!" her father yelled out from the parking lot, where he sat in his car. "Get in here. We've got a lot of work to do today!"

Helga stopped cold, her face flushed from embarrassment. Big Bob _never_ came to pick her up! He was always too busy with his 'beeper empire' to notice her, really. Holding still as long as she did gave another student the chance to come up behind her, frowning at her.

"Helga?" Arnold's voice spoke up from just behind her shoulder. "Is everything okay? You've been kinda... out of it... all day."

The hesitation around his observation steeled her, and rather than snap at him, she simply let out a low growl and stalked off to get into her father's car. But as she sat down, her brow furrowed and lips set into a deep scowl, she found her eyes seeking out Arnold again. He paused just before the bus, looking at her for a long minute. A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that something had passed between them in that moment. But their locked gazes were broken as Big Bob pulled away.

"Back seat," he said gruffly, nodding to a box found in the back. Helga twisted, peering at the box for a moment before she blinked. It was a laptop still in the box, brand new. "I called Olga today and she said you'd really benefit from it. Consider it an early birthday present or something," he added, his voice brusque. "She's going to arrange for your uniforms, but I gotta get your measurements to her. I would've had Miriam do it, but she's packing your bags. You leave Saturday morning."

"So...," Helga began, every bit of venom she could muster laced into her words. "I don't get a say in this? I don't get to point out that this whole idea is ridiculous. It's just... 'go here, Helga' and 'do this, Helga'?" She winced as the words came out less biting and more plaintive toward the end, and eventually resorted to snapping her mouth shut so hard her teeth clicked.

"This is the best for you," Bob said back steadily. She flinched just a bit at the way the sounds slowed a little, as though he were speaking to a slow child, and turned to stare stonily out the window. He continued to talk, but she stopped listening to what he was saying. Instead, she was listening to the rushing in her ears, and the sounds of the car as it drove along the city street, and the occasional distraction of street construction. Anything at all to keep from hearing all of the reasons he had to offer for why she should move away.

The shopping trip went by in a blur, Bob forcing her to buy or try on various things. From clothes they moved to toiletries, and from there to shoes. Notebooks, pens, all manner of school supplies she might need. A special wallet for the identification card she'd receive. And, in a last-ditch effort to make some peace with her, a new journal that just matched the other fourteen in her room. Except that those books were filled with poems dedicated to her great beloved, and this one was a blank canvas, awaiting new observations and words that trickled like delighted honey from her pen. When they got home, Helga made her way up to her room with her new laptop, pulling it out of the box and staring blankly at the glossy black of the case.

"I don't want to do this," she said after several minutes, her voice breaking the silence of her room with an unhappy note of whining. But no one was around to reassure her, and in the end she gave up and opened the laptop, turning it on. She skipped dinner in favor of exploring through the new machine, though her interest was less on the machine than it was on not having to face Bob and Miriam again. She'd creep down later and scrounge up something to eat.

When bedtime came, she'd ignored her homework again. After all, what did it matter when she was going to be gone within a week? Instead, she'd explored her laptop backwards and forwards, taken a look at the suitcase they'd bought for her and realized that if she had to pack everything in that one suitcase, she was stuck with a very big problem. There was absolutely no way she could bring what she needed to _and_ take the fourteen volumes of Arnold-centric poetry currently gracing her bookshelf. And yet... she had no desire to leave them behind, either. So she'd taken a couple of hours and carefully typed out the poems from the first three volumes. It was slow work, and she'd ruthlessly squashed each desire to linger over the poems and recall each delicious image.

***

On Wednesday, her school was alerted to the fact that Helga Pataki would no longer be a student there. Helga had listened as her father made the call before the bus had even arrived, and then taken the lunch that Miriam made and headed into school. There was a sinking feeling in her gut, rather like she'd eaten a large iron rock instead of the pop-tarts she'd scarfed.

She swaggered through the halls, aware that Phoebe was her constant shadow as always, and paused at her locker to lean against the wall, considering. "Hey Pheebs," she said after a moment, staring at a point on the wall opposite. "I guess you haven't heard the news yet." When Phoebe looked up at her questioningly, Helga's eyes slid away, toward their classroom door. "I'm moving schools this weekend." She didn't look back at the faint squeak that slipped from Phoebe's lips, but she could feel her shoulders tense just a little.

"Don't make a big deal out of it or anything," she said sharply, one hand clenching into a fist as she shoved herself up from the wall. Why bother to get her books for class? She could just daydream through the whole day, and there wasn't anything Mr. Simmons could do to her, after all. "Just ignore it, okay? I'll be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas and junk. It's not like I'm going to be gone forever."

"Ignoring," came the soft acceptance, a faint hint of tears to Phoebe's voice. Helga's tension grew, and more out of a desire to do something rather than simply stand there, she finally turned and began to dig through her locker. "But... Helga?" Phoebe finally asked, the question muted and hesitant. "Where are you going?"

"There's this boarding school that wants me," Helga said dismissively, waving one hand while her head was still stuck in her locker. She grabbed a notebook and a pencil, then lifted her head and turned to finally scowl at Phoebe, only to freeze in surprise. Just behind Phoebe were Arnold and Gerald, both of them watching the scene in surprise. For a moment, her mouth worked without a sound issuing forth, her throat closed tightly around anything she might've said. It took a few seconds for her brain to settle back into the tracks it had been on. "So Big Bob decided it was a really great opportunity for me or something like that. What do I care? I'll be back by the end of the year, I'm sure of it." Blustery bravado in front of her beloved Arnold, whose head was tilting to one side.

"Helga, you're leaving?" he asked, the faint husk of worry to his voice that she heard so often focused on others. One hand half-lifted, pressing the notebook against her chest and feeling the bite of heart-shaped metal digging into her skin through her clothes. She wanted to say something to him, to tell him something of the way this whole situation was tearing through her and leaving her soul a ragged mess. But instead, she grabbed Phoebe's arm and tugged her along.

"Yeah, Football Head. Greener pastures and all that jazz. I bet you'll miss me when I'm gone, huh?" Sarcasm was her dearest ally in these moments, and she passed through the door of her classroom mostly unscathed, slouching back to sink down in her seat and glare at the chalkboard. When Mr. Simmons walked in a few minutes later, he gave her a pointed, meaningful look, and she snorted, looking away, so that her eyes sought out the window instead. As long as she could stay angry and defensive... maybe she wouldn't cry about it.

"Good morning, Class," Mr. Simmons began, and Helga could feel his eyes linger on her for another minute or so before he moved to lean against his desk, focusing on the classroom at large. They had already settled down for the morning, with Harold sneaking a few bites here and there from whatever he'd managed to smuggle into the room that morning, and others glancing around. "I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news for us today," the teacher continued, his hands clasped in front of him as he looked at them each in turn.

_Here it comes_, Helga thought to herself, and made a pointed show of tossing her pigtails as she turned to face the front of the room again. Forget pouting. Helga G. Pataki was no wimp, and she would weather this just as she weathered everything else in her life – with pride, bravado, and bluster.

"Helga," Mr. Simmons continued, and she couldn't really tell in that moment whether he'd actually noticed her little show of defiance, "has been given a very special opportunity to study elsewhere." She rolled her eyes, then turned to tearing a small strip of paper out of her notebook and starting to roll it into a spitball. Always with the emphasis on special, as though this were some fantastic opportunity that only came along once in a lifetime. "As of next week, Class, I'm afraid Helga won't be part of our classroom any longer. Instead, she'll be gracing Philanden Academy, a boarding school across the country. Helga," he added, turning to look directly at her. She scowled back at him, and he just sighed, watching her with worry. "Would you like to tell us a little more about where you're going?"

"Not really," Helga informed him sourly, before her eyes slowly surveyed the classroom. They'd all started paying attention at the start of his news, and now every eye was riveted on her. Some held pleasure at the idea of seeing the end of her bullying, but others actually looked... worried. _Worried?_, she wondered inwardly, her scowl deepening. _About her? What was there to worry about? _"It's just a dumb school my parents decided to send me to. It's not like I asked for this or anything."

"But Helga." Of course, she thought, as her eyes turned to face Arnold's directly. It _would_ be him who decided to actually push her on this point. The football-head just didn't know when to leave well enough alone. "Are you okay with this? You don't sound very happy about it." Trust Arnold.

Helga's hands clenched into fists as she slipped back into the anger that so often shielded her from giving away her secrets. "Of course I'm okay with it," she said, every word bitten off her tongue carefully, enunciated with the greatest precision, as though she were speaking to a dimwitted baby. "It's just a different school. It's not like it's any big deal. It's not like I have a huge circle of bosom buddies around here, bucko." There was a small hiss of sucked-in air to her right, and her jaw tensed. She'd talk to Phoebe later, try to explain that leaving Phoebe behind really did matter, but she just couldn't show it. Not now. Not here.

"Now class," Mr. Simmons held up his hands and everyone quieted down. Even Helga fell silent, her eyes narrowed at him in consideration. He had something up those short sleeves of his, she could tell. He always got that same sort of do-gooder look in his eyes that Arnold wore when he was helping out one of their classmates. But Mr. Simmons wasn't one of them. He was their teacher, so his do-gooder instincts made it interference, rather than good advice. And yet... "I have an idea. This morning, I got permission from Helga's parents to set up a special email account for her to check, so that we could keep in touch with her even when she's gone. That way, she can tell us all about the special things that happen to her at this new school she's going to, and each and every one of you can tell her about the unique ways in which you miss her. I'll be contacting each of your parents tonight to get permission to set you up with similar accounts, and we'll go over all the safety rules of being online tomorrow."

A few heads were nodding, some eyes were rolling, and one student sat stonily silent amidst the suggested idea. She couldn't let on how good the idea made her feel, to know that she'd still have some way to talk to the others... even to Mr. Simmons himself. It would ruin her reputation, and reputations took entirely too long to build up.

"Now, does anyone have any other suggestions for things we might do to savor the last three days we have with Helga?" Mr. Simmons asked brightly, assuming that of course someone else would have an idea. After all, they were her classmates, and he was naïve enough to simply assume that they would care about her.

"What about a party on Friday afternoon?" Arnold spoke up, as Gerald shot him an incredulous look. "We could all plan to bring a little snack or something, and maybe have some music and make cards telling Helga that we'll miss her and everything." There was that note in his voice, she thought wryly. That excited, 'I can do something about this' note that energized everyone around him and tugged them along on each and every wild scheme he had in that crazy-shaped head of his.

"I'm right here, Football Head," she snapped, scowling over at him, even as her heart hammered in her chest. Arnold, throwing a party for _her_? It was too good a dream, even if it must end too soon. "Nobody wants a party over this." But already, her words were being drowned out by agreements through the classroom. A chance at skipping some of school? Who cared if almost no-one actually liked her in the room. Party won over schoolwork any day of the year, and Helga knew it as well as anyone else. She started to argue further, then finally growled a sharp, annoyed sound and hunched down into her seat.

"Fine," she snapped. "Have a party. But you'd better make it a good one, Arnold-o. Got it?" When he simply turned to smile at her, his eyes half-lidded and confidence written all over his face, she turned away. There were some things that even she wasn't strong enough to stand up against.

***

"So, Pheebs," Helga said quietly at recess, sitting down on the picnic table in the schoolyard, her arms draped over her knees as she looked down at her friend sitting just below her on the bench. "You, uh... you gonna be okay?" Comforting Phoebe was always an awkward thing for the girl who preferred a punch to gentle words. But it was important, and of anyone at P.S. 118, Phoebe was the only one that Helga would actually try to comfort. Or so she told herself. "I mean, like Simmons said, it's not like we won't be able to talk and junk. He's even doing that whole email thing just for it." Her voice trailed off at that, and she swallowed.

No matter what she said to Phoebe, it wouldn't be the same. It couldn't be, not really. They just weren't as good when they were apart. Phoebe needed someone like her to look out for her, shy little mouse that she was, and to guide her, to give direction to her life. Helga looked down at her hands, her long thick brow furrowed over her eyes. And, truth be told... she needed Phoebe just as much. Without Phoebe there beside her, things just didn't go smoothly. But that wasn't what Phoebe needed to hear right now, Helga decided firmly, squashing the mushy thoughts away. She needed to hear that everything would be just fine, and that they would still be friends. "We'll just be pen-pals now, instead of... I mean..."

She stammered to a halt, shoulders hunching sourly as she glared down at her hands. "Uh, maybe you should try playing baseball with the guys sometime," she added after a moment. "They're gonna need someone now that I'm going, and it's not like Princess Rhonda would deign to chip her nails or anything, right?" That was better, she thought to herself, nodding a little. Sarcasm had given strength to her voice again, and she sounded like she was on top of all this once more. "Besides, baseball's good for the, uh, brain. Yeah. All those numbers to remember."

"I'll try, Helga," Phoebe promised, cutting her off before she could make a fool of herself. And while anyone else interrupting would've ended up with a fist implanted in their face, with Phoebe, it was okay. Helga's eyes lifted from the pockmarked concrete below them to Phoebe's eyes, and blinked. There were no tears there, no hint of weakness. There was, instead, a strength that reminded Helga of Phoebe's father somehow, and it unsettled Helga a little. Rather than comment on it, Helga shifted uncomfortably on the table, feeling the uneven boards of wood bite into her thighs through her dress. "I'll also make certain to pass along any news here at the school," she added after a moment. "So that you won't feel like you've left us all completely behind." That strength was Phoebe's father's, but there was that gentle smile that Phoebe got directly from her mother, and if the strength had unsettled Helga, the gentleness derailed her completely.

"Yeah," Helga said, jumping up from the table to cover her sudden nerves. "Yeah, you have to tell me what that football-twerp is saying about me and all, right? And I'll need to know how many punches I've gotta give Harold when I get back at Thanksgiving." Her voice was rushed, slipping from her in an almost panicked speech, and she reached back, grabbing Phoebe's arm to drag her along. "C'mon, let's go play... something. Monkey bars, yeah. Let's climb the monkey bars," she said, pointing toward where Eugene was dangling by his knees. Phoebe didn't put up a fight as Helga dragged her along, but Helga didn't miss the resigned sigh that slipped quietly from her.

Maybe this was going to be harder to bluster through than the blonde girl had expected...


	4. Flowers of Red and Black

**Letters to a Young Poetess**

**by Kaelanti**

**Chapter Two**

**"Flowers of Red and Black"**

"I still say you're crazy, man," Gerald said, as he lounged on Arnold's stoop, looking up at the setting sun with his best friend. Arnold glanced over, offering Gerald a half-smile as he shook his head. "I mean," Gerald continued in that tone he reserved for when he was trying to make a very firm, obvious point to a very stubborn, seemingly-clueless Arnold. "What possessed you to suggest we have a party for _Helga Pataki_?"

"She's our friend, Gerald." Simple words, to go along with the simple smile that Arnold offered back at Gerald. He could understand his friend's confusion, honestly. After all, there were so many times that he wanted to just walk away, wanted to give in and fight back, rather than simply letting her abuse wash over him. But every time he seriously considered it, something always ended up changing his mind, some tiny glimpse that perhaps there was more to her than simply a blowhard tomboy in pink. "You don't want to?"

"A party, instead of schoolwork? I can live with that. But you want me to be all noble, don'tcha? Say that deep down, I actually dig the girl?" Gerald waggled his eyebrows at Arnold, and Arnold couldn't help a soft chuckle at his friend. He stood up as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind buildings, and held out a hand to help up Gerald as well.

"I'll settle for tolerate," Arnold smiled, and their fists bumped together, thumbs waggling back and forth in silent acceptance of the spoken and unspoken. "What I want is for you to help me tomorrow," he added after a moment, walking up the steps and opening the door. Gerald followed him inside, listening to Arnold even as he waved hello to Arnold's grandfather.

"Help you with what, man?" Gerald asked. Arnold glanced back at Gerald for a long minute, then smiled secretively, turning to climb the stairs to his room. Without question, Gerald followed him, just as Arnold had known he would. They were a part of each other, as close as brothers. Closer, in fact, Arnold reflected, if you counted the way Gerald and Jamie-O felt about each other.

When they were in his room, with the stairs pulled up behind him and the door shut, Arnold turned to the radio. "I think we should get her something before she goes," he said, as the soft strains of jazz began to fill the room. "Something to take with her, I mean. More than just a card." He moved to sit down on his bed, looking across the room at where Gerald had flopped down along his red couch.

"You are kidding me," Gerald pronounced slowly, a disbelieving note to his voice. "First you suggest a party for her, and now you want the two of us to get her some sort of special gift? Arnold, did you hit your head today on the monkey bars?" Round eyes narrowed to slits above a wide-spread nose, and Gerald nestled his chin against the back of his hands, staring straight at Arnold. "Or did Helga throw one too many spitballs your way today?"

"No, Gerald!" Arnold cut him off impatiently, shaking his head. "Not just the two of us. I think the whole class needs to get her something. Maybe a couple of small things. Like... a photo or something." Even as he spoke, his eyes began to light up, a grin slowly forming over his lips. "Yeah," he said, and even though he was facing Gerald directly, somehow his gaze had turned distant. He wasn't really seeing the other kid anymore. "A photo _album_. We can all add a picture of ourselves in it, and write a little personal message to Helga, and at the end we can include one of our class photos, with everyone. That'd be perfect!"

"Arnold," Gerald said, dampening down Arnold's growing excitement. "We have two days to pull this off. Do you honestly think that we're going to manage to get everyone in the entire class to produce a picture _and_ sign some sort of little oh-so-happy message to _Helga Pataki_?" Arnold could hear the pointed emphasis, but it didn't phase him in the slightest. So little ever did, when an idea had him chomping at the bit to get started.

"Well, sure," he returned, rather than letting Gerald's disbelief pull him down. "Phoebe'll help us, and we could maybe ask Mr. Simmons about trying to get school photos. Picture day wasn't that long ago, after all. Mrs. Vitello was experimenting with some pressed flower-decorated albums. I can go there tonight when you head home and get one for her. That way, she'd even have a special little piece of the neighborhood to go with it," he said, irrepressible excitement creeping back into his voice. "I just need your help getting everyone to sign it when she isn't looking. We can enlist Phoebe to help keep Helga out of our way so that she doesn't realize what we're doing!"

Gerald stared for a long minute at Arnold, then slowly sighed, turning onto his back and looking up at the ceiling instead. "You're a bold kid, Arnold," he murmured, the words slow and dragging, and faintly reluctant. "A bold kid." Arnold just smiled at that, knowing that sometimes, like this time, the complimentary words covered up another statement altogether. But he didn't mind that Gerald thought he was nuts. It had already settled into his brain, and he could envision exactly how he wanted to do things. And the tiny portion of him that was frowning over the fact that he was going to so much trouble for Helga was lost amidst formulating plans.

***

Once he'd finally laid out the plan in full for Gerald, it had taken the rest of their evening together to call around to various classmates asking for pictures. They'd called Phoebe first, and Arnold was grateful for that by the time it came to walk Gerald home and they'd only barely managed to finish the half of the students that they'd told Phoebe they would talk to. Under Arnold's guidance, the half-baked plan had slowly coalesced into something organized and orderly. Each time they'd called someone new, they had explained the idea, and how much work they were putting into it. And eventually, each place they'd gotten a promise of a five by seven picture to go in the book.

Arnold walked Gerald partway home, but instead of going all the way, he'd ducked into the flower shop as they'd arrived there, leaving Gerald to shake his head slowly and head off home muttering about what a bold kid Arnold was. The photo album itself had been less difficult to obtain than Arnold had feared. There were a few of them in the shop – very few, as Mrs. Vitello decorated each using flowers she'd hand-pressed herself, and because of that personal touch, they were all more costly than Arnold had expected.

The album he finally paused in front of was cream-colored, decorated with small red flowers with red petals and prominently dark centers. It sported some forty pages to it, along with a central picture window on the front of the album. It was perfect... and twenty dollars beyond his reach.

"Something wrong, Arnold?" Mrs. Vitello finally asked, looking over as she finished sweeping up the shop. She dusted her hands off on the apron she wore, the white fabric between tiny blue flowers going brown as some of the dirt from her hands came off. "You've got a long face there," she added in her faintly husky, faintly nasal voice.

Arnold looked up at her sheepishly, hesitating a long moment before deciding to just explain the problem. "One of my classmates is moving, Mrs. Vitello," he said, reaching up to take down the album he'd been staring at and look at it a little more closely. "It's really sudden, but she's not leaving until Saturday, so we're going to have a party for her on Friday, and I thought we should maybe get her something to help her think about all of us and remember us." He held up the album, offering her a sheepish smile. "But I didn't realize how expensive it would be. I can't afford it, and no one else offered to chip in."

He moved to put the album back on the shelf, but one hand, dirty from a full day of working with plants, settled on his arm. Stopped mid-gesture, he just stood there for a moment, arms still outstretched toward the shelf as he looked up at Mrs. Vitello curiously. "You're a good boy, Arnold," she said, smiling down at him. Above her hawkish nose, her eyes crinkled with good humor. "I'll tell you what. You come work for me on Sunday, all day, and we'll call it even. I think a few hours of good help around here would be enough to pay for this, don't you?"

Instantly, Arnold's green eyes lit up in delight, and he nodded hard. "Absolutely, Mrs. Vitello! That'd be really great!" He drew the album back to him, hands squeezing the edge just a little hard in his excitement. "Thank you so much! I've gotta get back home. There's still a lot of work to do in this," he babbled, and as Mrs. Vitello waved goodbye, he ran out of her shop and back toward the boarding house, clutching the album against his chest.

For almost fifteen minutes, Arnold carefully examined the album, comparing the flower petals to various folders of construction paper and markers, and noting the small details of it. When he looked more closely, he could see that the cream-colored cover was some sort of fabric stretched over the covers of the book, and that it and the flowers were pressed down behind a glossy plastic cover that made handling the album much safer. In the lower corner of the back cover, on the inside, he read two hand-lettered Latin words, and realized that they were the name of the flowers. But he had no idea what flower _Adonis Annua_ actually was.

Forty pages, counting front and back, that he had to fill. Or rather, that he could fill. But that was what he wanted to do. He didn't want to present Helga with a half-created photo album. Instead, he wanted it to be whole and complete, offering her a better set of memories than something hastily thrown together. And so he began to plot, taking out a sheet of notebook paper and numbering each line before slowly penciling in exactly what should go on each page. By the time he was done, he was back to feeling confident in the project, and it was with a light heart that he began to prepare forty little white message cards.

***

"Man, you don't look good, Arnold," came Gerald's pronouncement the next day, as Arnold slid onto the bus seat beside his best friend. Arnold knew it, though he felt a little sheepish that Gerald's voice was loud enough to at least carry three seats front and back. He reached up, tugging on a lock of hair more wayward even than normal, and adjusting his blue cap. Somehow, it was refusing to sit just right on his head, and he suspected a lot of the reason had to do with hair that was willfully stubborn about not laying straight.

"I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night, that's all," he shrugged, voice slightly huskier than normal. 'Sleep-frogged', his grandpa had called it, and he'd just looked at his grandfather oddly at that one. "I was up late working on...." He trailed off as he saw Helga and Phoebe climb onto the bus, and he glanced pointedly at Gerald. "That _thing_." Gerald rolled his eyes at the secrecy, but nodded gamely. Arnold looked back up as Helga and Phoebe sat down, and caught sight of Phoebe looking significantly at Gerald. He could feel his friend nod slightly to the girl, and blinked again as he saw a faint dusting of pink over Phoebe's cheeks for a moment. But a second later, he was left wondering if he'd imagined the color, as Phoebe turned back to whatever it was Helga was going on about.

"I swear," Gerald chuckled, leaning his head back against the bus seat, "that girl likes to hear herself talk as much as Rhonda does." Such observations were kept quiet, a 'just between us' sort of voice that the two had perfected over the years. Arnold chuckled a little and nodded, settling back himself and closing his eyes. He could feel that tiny cap on his head push a little forward, but it didn't fall off, so he didn't bother with it.

"At recess, we'll collect the pictures from everyone we can," Arnold said quietly. "If you can, talk to Phoebe before that, and see if she can keep Helga moving, so that we can get a few words with everyone. After school, we've got other stuff to do." Hands laced together over his stomach, and he felt himself start to drift a little bit. But there was only one more day of this, and then the party, and then Friday night he could go to bed really early so that he could still watch Saturday morning cartoons properly.

"_What _other stuff?" Gerald asked suspiciously, dark eyes narrowing at Arnold. "Oh no you don't. You're not going to sleep and leaving me hanging like that." He elbowed his friend sharply, and Arnold shifted in his seat, giving Gerald a half-hearted glare. "Talk," Gerald directed at him, trying to sound commanding.

"The album has too many pages for just the class," Arnold explained quietly. "So I thought we could get some pictures of the neighborhood too, and take them down to the one-hour photo place. That way, she can also have some good memories of Mighty Pete, and Gerald Field and stuff." He offered Gerald his usual smile, and saw Gerald just slowly start shaking his head.

"Arnold, why do I go along with all this?" Gerald asked, frowning just a little. But Arnold could see that frown or not, Gerald realized that he was already involved, and it was just going to stay that way. "You're crazy to do all this just for Helga."

"Yeah, well," Arnold said sheepishly, his smile only growing at Gerald's words. "Grandpa says that being normal is boring anyway." And that, as far as he was concerned, was that.

***

The end of recess found Arnold and Gerald making their way to the last two people on their list, with Phoebe having successfully kept Helga out of their way. Of the kids they'd already spoken to, more than half had remembered to bring their pictures along. "Hey, Gerald?" Arnold asked, as he tucked Park's picture away in the small notebook he'd brought out to the schoolyard. "Remind me to ask Phoebe what she told the people she called. Everyone on her list made sure to bring their photos."

Gerald nodded at the observation, glancing over his shoulder back toward where Phoebe had carefully roped Helga into a game of four-square with Harold and Stinky. "She's really reliable," he agreed calmly, making a checkmark on his paper. "Last two are Nadine and Rhonda. Rhonda was quizzing me about what sort of decorations we were going to put in the album last night," he added after a moment, tucking the list out of sight in his back pocket.

"You think she might withhold her picture?" Arnold questioned, frowning a little at the thought as he looked over at the last two. When Gerald only shrugged, Arnold sighed. "Well, here goes," he said, before making his way toward the determinedly. He didn't look back to see if Gerald was following him. He could feel his best friend without looking.

"Oh Arnold," Rhonda said, her eyes lifting just in time to catch their last few steps. "You must be here for the picture." She dug into a small purse she had carried with her that day, holding her arm just _so_ in order to catch the sunlight in the glass gemstones decorating it. "I must say, I'm not sure it captures my best side, but I suppose that won't matter quite so much, considering who it's for."

"Rhonda," Arnold frowned, holding out his hand for the picture. When she handed it over, he looked at it curiously, then smiled. "It's really pretty, Rhonda," he said, rather than comment further on her words.

"Of course it is," Rhonda replied, reaching up to run her hand through her short black hair. The move was so practiced that Arnold was left wondering if she even realized she did it anymore. "Now, Gerald said that you were putting borders around each of the pictures. The borders aren't going to be red or orange, are they?" she asked, spearing him with a look, and Arnold blinked.

"Well," he started, awkwardly tucking the picture away without looking. "The flowers on the front of the album are red with black centers, so I was planning..." He never got a chance to finish. Rhonda interrupted almost immediately.

"The border for mine should be black, then. After all, basic black goes with anything, and red would clash with my top horribly. Make sure my border's black, Arnold. You can do Nadine's in red. She was wearing blue that day," she added, nudging her best friend. Nadine blinked and handed over her picture as well.

"Yes, Rhonda," Arnold sighed, tucking the new picture away as well. "I'll make sure of it." He started to say more, but the bell rang in that moment, and he tried to hide his relief. Turning away from Rhonda, he spoke to Gerald instead. "Good thing I haven't cut out all of the borders yet, right?" he asked, holding his fist out to his friend.

Gerald's answer was accompanied by a bump of his own fist, complete with wiggling thumb. "Listen," he said, starting to lean over to Arnold. Helga interrupted, walking past them both with a dismissive 'Watch it, Football-head' and a shove that effectively pushed Arnold directly into Gerald. Gerald sighed, watching her go as Phoebe hurried to keep up, and looked at his friend again. "Are you sure about doing all of this work?"

Arnold scowled, rubbing the arm she'd shoved with his other hand as he watched the back of Helga's head. But even though at that moment he wanted to fight back, there was really only one answer he could give Gerald. They'd already come too far to back out now, after all. "Yes, Gerald," he said. "I'm sure."

"You go home after school and work on those borders and cards," Gerald replied, moving to hold the door for Arnold. "I'll take care of the pictures. Sid said earlier that his dad could get them developed for us. I'll bring them by after dinner, okay?" The two best friends shared a slow grin between themselves before heading down the hall.


	5. Party!

**Letters to a Young Poetess**

**by Kaelanti**

**Chapter Three**

**"Party!"**

Friday morning found Helga wide awake early, a feeling of wrongness already settled into her bones. She couldn't leap out of bed to head to her shrine and pen a glorious morning ode to her beloved. The books had been packed carefully away, and her shrine dismantled, all to protect her secret against prying eyes while she was away.

The night before, she had crept into her father's study, making away with a jewel-case labeled QuickTax Pro. Silently, she'd loaded the software onto her computer, then buried her poetry folder, filled with the works from fourteen pink-covered books, deep within the taxes folder. _She_ would know how to find that most important of all folders, but no one else would. And that was precisely the way she wanted it.

But all that had already been accomplished. And she was left laying awake that morning with the feeling that perhaps somewhere in all the preparations, she had lost a little of her sense of self. "My love," she whispered, imagining that she could see her breath as it escaped her lips. From somewhere downstairs, she could hear her parents beginning to rouse, and knew that soon it would be time to board the bus for the last two times. "How will I ever face each day without your smiling face to light my path? How, then, should I wake feeling alive, when you're not there with me?"

Silence was her only answer, and Helga turned her face into her pillow for a long moment. She wouldn't cry, not over this, but holding back the threatening tears was harder than she expected it to be. Her hands fisted into the covers, holding them tightly as she held her breath. And finally, the urge to let it all passed, and she sat up slowly.

Her eyes slipped over to where her suitcase stood by her door, already completely packed. She was as ready as she could possibly be, and that was on purpose, too. Nothing would stop her from spending this last day with her friends. School, where Arnold had proposed a party in her honor, and then afterward she'd head straight to Gerald Field with the others, and bask in a last baseball game. She'd drag Phoebe off to throw rocks at dumpsters and she'd invite herself over to Phoebe's for dinner. Afterward, she'd take the smaller girl out for ice cream one last time, and they'd take their time walking home. If everything went as planned, by the time Helga got home, it would be her bedtime, and she wouldn't have to deal with Big Bob or Miriam until the ride to the airport Saturday morning.

Her closet held only one dress, an orange and red one her mother had one day bought her on impulse. She'd despised the dress from the moment she'd first seen it, but wearing it today meant more time with her friends, and she would make the sacrifice silently. She tugged it over her head, scowling at the way the colors clashed with her ever-present bow. But the bow stayed, and anyone who didn't like it could just _deal_ with it.

_Or, _she thought viciously, _they can deal with Ol' Betsy and the Five Avengers. _Somehow, the pure Helga-ness within the thought reassured her, and the scowl faded a little as she tugged her brush through the knots in her hair. She didn't mind that the jerking motions pulled sharply at her hair. The small bits of pain soothed her soul, made her feel that somehow, her suffering wasn't empty and invisible. By the time she was done, there was a small mat of blonde hair in her brush, and her hair gleamed. She pulled it into the pigtails she always wore, tugged on socks, and made her way to the bathroom for her morning routine.

Breakfast was a study in impatience. She skirted around Miriam with the ease of practice, grabbing an apple from the fridge and biting away the few dark spots before starting to eat it. Her lunch was a couple of handfuls of pork rinds and some meatballs from the night before. She filled her thermos with lemonade, tucked it all away in her lunchbox, and ran out of the house before Big Bob could come into the kitchen and start complaining about his need for a hot breakfast.

Safely outside of her house, with no one aware enough to tell her to come home at a certain time, she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd make this day as good as she possibly could for herself and Phoebe. Having that last memory was the only way she'd survive elsewhere.

***

"Oh, Helga?" Mr. Simmons' voice interrupted her thoughts as she leaned against the lockers, waiting for Phoebe to get what she needed before the bell. "I'm going to need you to turn in your books today. You're also going to need to clean out your locker this afternoon before you head home."

Helga's brow furrowed deeply over her eyes, and she bit back the urge to say something angry. "Yeah, sure," was her only response, as she turned to dig into her own locker. Most of it could be thrown away, honestly. She kept nothing in her locker of any particularly personal value. It was too easy to break into the lockers for that. There were old school assignments clogging it, but that was simple enough to arrange in a pile and cart to one of the trash cans nearby. The books were piled in her arms, and she nudged the locker closed. The clang of metal on metal drew a slight flinch from her.

"Do you need help, Helga?" The question startled her, and she jumped a little as she turned to face Arnold. Somehow, she managed to keep from dropping the books on her foot in the process. "Those look heavy," he added, shifting the one book he carried around a bit before moving to take the top couple of books from the stack.

For a few seconds, Helga stood completely still, letting him take the books as she watched in shock. She could see that his hair gleamed brightly that morning, could smell the scent of the shampoo he used, could almost _almost_ feel the warmth from him. And then she was scrambling backwards, her face sliding into the etched-stone scowl that she always presented him. "What do you think you're doing, Football-Head?" she demanded, and ignored the way her voice was a touch more strident than usual. "I didn't give you permission to crowd me. Get back!"

There it was, timed perfectly with the painful thumps of her heart - the way his face froze, then slowly fell as he stepped back. "Yeah, Helga," he agreed calmly, as Gerald let out a slow sigh of air from beside him. She blinked. She hadn't even noticed the dark-skinned boy in the confusion. "Whatever you say. Coming, Gerald?" he added, moving to walk past her to class. Gerald gave her a slow sweep with those dark eyes of his, and then he clucked his tongue against his teeth once and turned to head after Arnold silently.

Phoebe stood beside her, silent witness to the whole exchange, and Helga turned to her with an odd lump of dread in the pit of her stomach. But Phoebe only held out her arms to take a couple of the books from Helga. She offered no words of comfort or condemnation. Just a silent, accepting presence that drew Helga's scowl back into a faintly grateful smile. "Thanks, Pheebs," Helga murmured, depositing two of the books into Phoebe's arms, before turning toward class.

As they walked through the hallway, Helga looked down at her best friend, the small smile on her lips growing. "Oh, and Phoebe?" she added abruptly, and was rewarded by a curious look from her best friend. "I'm eating dinner at your house tonight. Got it?"

"Yes, Helga," Phoebe chirped, a sunny smile breaking over her face. "I already told my parents."

***

The morning had gone smoothly for Helga, all things considered. She had turned in her books first thing that morning, then slouched in her seat, tearing little strip off a piece of notebook paper and rolling them into balls. She piled the balls on her desk, a tiny ammo dump while her mind was elsewhere. A few times, Arnold had glanced back at her, disconcerted by the lack of spitballs in his hair, but she'd only stared back at him, trying to make her face as cold as possible. For once, she'd looked away before he had, but she couldn't help it. Each time, she'd felt her mask beginning to crack.

It wasn't until lunch that she caught the first whispers. "...see the color of her _dress_?" was the first hint, in Rhonda's oh-so-scandalized voice. The very words made Helga's fist clench, but before she could round on the girl, she felt a hand on her other arm, and jerked around, blinking in surprise as she came face to face with Arnold.

"Arnold!" she said, her voice a little high and breathless. _Calm down, Helga, _she told herself, just searching those jellybean eyes for a long moment before she remembered that she had to actually speak again. "What do you want, Football Head?" she managed, not sounding quite so annoyed as she had been aiming for. Certainly, it didn't seem to do the trick at all, for Arnold simply smiled at her.

"Gerald and I wanted to play Four Square," he explained, looking over at Phoebe with a smile. "I thought maybe you and Phoebe wanted to join us?"

Helga spent a few precious seconds remembering how to breathe. _Oh beloved, _she thought, resisting the urge to lift her free hand to her chest and press against the thundering beat of her heart. _Why wait until now, when we have so little time to be together before I am ripped cruelly from you and sent away? Why have I wasted all this time being so heartless and cold to you, who are filled with the warmth of the sun? Why... _"Yeah, sure, Football Head," she finally remembered to say, her eyes narrowed at him. "We can play Four Square with you." She jerked her arm back from where his hand had rested on it all this time, and glared. "Don't get all mushy on me, Arnoldo!"

"Okay, Helga," Arnold sighed. "I'll go get the ball."

***

"Gather 'round, everyone," Mr. Simmons said, his voice forcibly bright and cheerful as he smiled at the students. He waved his hands a bit toward his desk, and Helga rolled her eyes. So the word of his day was cheerful. She got to her feet, her shoulders immediately settling into a slight slouch as she stalked toward the front of the room reluctantly. It beat 'special', she supposed silently, her arms folded over her chest.

As the other students gathered close as well, Mr. Simmons opened a white cardboard box to reveal a small cake decorated with pink roses and white edging. In a darker pink, between the roses, were the carefully-placed cursive words. 'We'll miss you, Helga.' "Let the party begin," Arnold grinned at Helga, but she didn't smile back at him.

The cake... the wrapped present off to one side... the party itself... None of it made her feel like smiling. If anything, it felt like there was an ever-tightening band around her chest, but she could breathe through the pain, so she did. _A reputation takes a lifetime to build, and a second to __destroy,_ she reminded herself, turning to almost glare at Mr. Simmons. "Well?" she asked, her tone just shy of bitingly sarcastic. "There aren't any candles. We might as well just cut it."

"Helga," Arnold's voice came again, from just beside her. There was a chiding tone to it, a disappointment in the way she was acting, that made her hair stand on end.

"Sorry, Football-Head," she replied, before he could say anything more. "Did you have some candles or something to add on? Did you want me to gush over it? You're looking at the wrong girl, Arnoldo," she added pointedly, turning to stare directly at him. She doubted that anyone could miss the definite challenge in her eyes. "_I_ don't gush."

"Let's just have fun, okay?" he said, a roundabout way of pushing the point of her attitude. "Enjoy the time we've got together. Okay?" He moved to lay a hand on her arm, and Helga jerked back before he could manage to do more than brush her skin with a single fingertip.

"Who said you could touch me, Paste-for-Brains?" she demanded sharply, twisting away from him to stare at the mockery of a cake again. Pink flowers with white frills. It looked like the sort of cake that Lila would love.

"Helga," Mr. Simmons cut in, setting the lid onto the cardboard box once more. "Let's all try to get along. Now, before we have cake, we have a present for you. Would you like to open it?" He smiled gamely, his eyes warmly sympathetic as he tried to guide her towards more 'acceptable' behavior.

"Sure," she nodded, glad to get the immediate focus off that too-girly cake. "Let's see it," she added, rubbing her hands together in a clichéd display of greed. The other kids laughed, their voices sounding a little awkward and weak amidst Helga's bluster and Arnold and Mr. Simmons' determination to make the party a pleasant one. As their teacher handed the gift to Helga, there was a faint hint of collectively-indrawn breath. She looked up at that, frowning slightly as her eyes shifted from kid to kid to kid, and then her hands were ripping at the paper in abandon.

Helga was not one to neatly unwrap a gift and set the paper aside for later use. Rather, she demolished the wrapping, then blinked as she came face to face with a striking album, the front decorated with red and black flowers carefully pressed and set atop a cream background. In the center was a frame-window into which had been placed a carefully decorated paper. 'Memories for Helga', it read, the letters also black and red, and precisely penned. She could detect a bit of Phoebe's work in the way the letters were done, but the art around the words was definitely not from Phoebe's hands.

Helga's eyes lifted, her brow furrowed as she scanned the other kids. When her eyes settled on Arnold, she could feel herself hold her breath for just a moment. The faintest hint of pink slipped into Arnold's cheeks, and she could finally exhale again. Arnold's work, of course. Smiling quietly, Helga turned back to the album, opening it to see a picture of the entire class on page one. And from there, it was one person per page, each with a small card with their name and the school-provided email address beneath. Beyond the students and Mr. Simmons were candid shots of the neighborhood: Mighty Pete, the aquarium, Dinoland, the old Circle theatre. It was all there, giving her a way to glimpse into the place she'd left behind even after she moved on to this boarding school where Olga worked.

"Th-," she started, then realized her throat was closed off. She coughed loudly, avoiding everyone's eyes as she tried again with more success. "Thanks, everyone. This is... ah... this is really something."

She started to say more, but before she could do anything beyond open her mouth, Harold piped up from the back of the room. "I'm hungry! Let's cut the cake!" The other students cheered at the thought, and Helga just nodded, careful hands moving to take her album over to her book bag. As she passed by the small group of Arnold, Gerald, and Phoebe standing close to each other, she ducked her head, staring down at the bold flowers covered in clear plastic. "...Thanks," she said softly, her voice pitched to where the three of them could just hear her over the clamor for cake.

Maybe... just maybe... she could survive all of this, after all.


End file.
